For half an hour the rain came down in bucketsful, and the thunder rumbled unceasingly.
The men standing up before the door contemplated the grey veil of the downpour, the swollen gutters, the splashes of water caused by the rain beating into the puddles.

The women, feeling frightened, had sat down again, holding their hands before their eyes.

They no longer conversed, they were too upset.

A jest Boche made about the thunder, saying that St.Peter was sneezing up there, failed to raise a smile.

But, when the thunder-claps became less frequent and gradually died away in the distance, the wedding guests began to get impatient, enraged against the storm, cursing and shaking their fists at the clouds.